Amber Memories
by Marcus Livius Drusus
Summary: Everyone knew there was something off about Harry Potter. He was charming. He was smart. He was absolutely insane, had been since second year. No one knew why, but he changed then, changed for a shy, rather ordinary boy into something else, something…decidedly unGryffindor.


The highest room of Gryffindor tower was reserved for oldest boys, for the seventh years. The youngest stayed on the bottom-most floor, "So," as Stan Shunpike once put it, "the older students won't get splashed when all the firsties piss themselves." And half way up the spiral stone steps, a red-oak door leads to the fifth-year hallway. Inside that hallway were four more oak doors and through them four dormitories with four beds each. At least that's how it always had been, how it was up until the start of the year. But now there were five beds in each dormitory, five beds in each save for one. That dormitory only had but the single bed, a single bed for a single occupant. That dormitory had been suborned by Harry Potter on the first day of the school year. It speaks to the fear and genuine bafflement he inspired in his peers that he was given it without protest.

Everyone knew there was something off about Harry Potter. He was charming. He was smart. He was absolutely insane, had been since second year. No one knew why, but he changed then, changed for a shy, rather ordinary boy into something else, something…decidedly unGryffindor. Those who knew him before found the change impossible to describe. He didn't become cruel. Save for one incident with that Malfoy boy, he didn't become violent. But it became immediately clear that he was now capable of cruelty and violence, that the neutrality in his expression and actions was the result of active restraint, that there was an anger, a fierce galvanic anger, churning beneath the cool, disinterested features of his countenance. And as for his new charm, his tempered wit—these were but paper masks, and beneath them a powder keg, lacking only for a spark.

Inside that strange dormitory, Hermione was sitting cross-legged on Harry's bed—an ancient four-posted gothic affair, covered in Gryffindor-red sheets. She had a large, dusty book between her tangled legs. Harry was pacing around his room, small thudding echoes born in his every step.

Hermione said, her eyes on the illuminated parchment, "Ok, here's one. Wart root venom and tillicum powder —"

"Should not be mixed," Harry thought for but a moment, "without a stabilizing agent. Either quicksilver or virgin's blood."

Hermione coughed, then raised an eyebrow. "Virgin's blood, Harry? Perhaps you've been spending a little too much time in the restricted section?"

"Perhaps, Hermione. Yet is it not a useful ingredient? And readily available. I have it on good authority that professor Snape keeps a near-infinite supply."

"On his person, at all moments?" She returned with a droll smile.

"Without a doubt." Harry smiled coolly.

Hermione, though worried at first, accepted Harry as he was. She was even a little impressed with some of the changes, as now he shared her enthusiasm for schoolwork, though not her passion. He learned magic out of obsession, and she out of love. Outside of Gryffindor, Harry had academic fellows and dueling club rivals, but Hermione was only person he considered a friend. And it was to her he gave what little affection he had in him to give. And it was this affection which kept Harry from cursing her when she asked her next question.

"Listen, Harry, and I know what you said last time, but I don''t you think it's time you tell me what happened?"

Harry stopped pacing. "I told you; I couldn't save Ginny. I failed. There's nothing more to tell."

"That can't be it, Harry. You were normal, Ron says even after the funeral you were normal. But when you came back after summer vacation… I don't know Harry, people change but not that much and not so quickly."

A withering look, a cool smile. "What more can I say, Hermione, I suppose I just grew up."

The next morning, Harry awoke to pain, as he did the day before, as he would every day for the rest of his life. He downed the potion he kept by his bedside—a thin violet liquid he brewed and bottled himself. It was bitter and immediately effective. He sighed, welcoming the relief. At first the pain was bright, a synesthetic agony which bled across his senses. But the potion reduced it to a slight glow, a sheering sort of aura focused around his left leg. He got out off bed, limping at first, but slowly his strides grew more assured. After putting on his robes, charming himself clean, and combing his hair back so as to display his scar more prominently, he opened the door and walked out of his room, his limp nearly unnoticeable. Though, perhaps, an uncommonly astute observer might notice a slight favoritism in his stride.

Walking into the common room, Harry smiled coolly, directing his gaze at Angelina Johnson who was sitting on a small loveseat, her dark skin illuminated by the flickering hearth. She had a broom on her lap and was carefully clipping broken bristles with a pair of shears.

"I'm usually the only one up at this early," Harry said.

Angelina looked up. "Can't sleep," she said.

"Are you worried about your first game as captain?"

"I suppose," She said. "I'm surprised you know we're playing today Harry, I didn't think you still followed quidditch."

"I still maintain a certain fascination for the game." Harry sat down on the large chesterfield opposite to Angelina's seat, and placed his legs on the automen in front of it. "I fly occasionally, though it's not quite the same as it was."

"If you're interested you could try out again. I could make an ex—"

"I assure you, Angelina, I'm no longer a team player. It wouldn't matter anyway: my skills have degraded significantly. And I get my competitive kicks from duelling club now.

"Hasn't seemed like much of a competition lately."

"Hermione still beats me occasionally. Daphne is not without talent , and Blaise is my equal. I still have competition.

"Ah Blaise, two years ago I never would have thought your best friend would be a Slytheran."

"I wouldn't call Blaise my friend. We are not the type to have friends. We merely share an obsession for combat magic."

"For dark magic?" Angelina said, her tone was filled with reproach. And yet her eyes betrayed interest, an attraction to the forbidden.

"Is that what you all gossip about?

"That wasn't a denial," Angelina said. "And yes, everyone does say you practice dark magic. Though I haven't heard any convincing evidence." She looked up at him now. Harry noticed her eyes were bloodshot. He wondered if she really had been up all night. "Well, do you practice dark magic?"

Harry pulled his wand out of his pocket. "I'm not sure what dark magic is, Angelina."

"Don't give me that tripe, Harry. It's magic that hurts people?"

"Many of the spells we use in dueling club hurt people. Is everyone in dueling club a dark artist?"

"That not the same. In dueling club you use spells of restraint or disarmament. The pain is ancillary. Dark magic causes pain for the sake of pain."

"Well that settles it then?" Harry said. He pointed his wand at Angelina and whispered an incantation. A thin pinprick of red light zoomed off the tip of his wand and hit her on the nose,. She felt a small pain, akin to a paper cut. It was the least-powerful stinging hex she had ever felt. "I suppose I'm a dark wizard then?"

"Ouch," She said, pulling her wand out, "you can't just curse people."

"That was a hex actually," He said without concern. "And I've always felt instruction should come before social grace." He smiled. "I was just proving a point. Dark magic is a confused term. It doesn't exist." Harry laughed, "It is just a term created by stodgy bureaucrats to keep us from learning uncommon magics. A demonstration," he said. Harry pointed his wand at his left hand and whispered, "[I]parabus[/I]". A seething ball of dark energy came into being in his left hand. It absorbed all light within three feet of it. And he held it casually, this chaotic sphere of dark energy, held it as if it were but a quill.

Angelina thought, couldn't help her self forom thinking, [I]this is how a wizard ought to act.[/I] [I]He should fold the base of reality as casually as one folds parchment.[/I]

What little light did escape the spell warped as if traveling through twisted glass. And this warping spread, spread until the whole of the common room looked twisted and unnatural, everything slightly off axis, as if the very laws of geometry had been corrupted by Harry's strange magic. "Now tell me, Angelina," Harry said, his smile no longer cold, "what is your favorite flower."

Angelina felt as if she were stuck in molasses. Her curiosity became a solid thing, a thick gelatinous restraint which lulled her fear. The magic was terrible. She could feel a coldness about it, a dangerous precision. It was like all magic she had seen before was adulterated and this was pure thing. It was terrifying. Terrifying and utterly engrossing.

"Well," Harry said. "What is it then? Roses, daffodils, daisies, petunias."

"Um, roses, Angelina said," Hardly even thinking as the words left his  
lips.  
"I'm just glad you didn't pick petunias," Harry said. He held the dark sphere to his mouth and whispered, [I]Rosa[/I]."

Slowly the room's geometry returned to normal. And the darkness in Harry's hand faded into a thick smoke, a smoke which coalesced into the shape of a single rose. And then the smoke solidified into actuality, becoming a perfect rose of the deepest crimson. Harry held out the flower, careful to keep just out of Angelina's reach. "What do you think?" Harry said. It was not just a rose, but the ideal rose, like all the others that had ever been were bad copies, the sordid works of inferior craftsmen. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and she wanted it, wanted it more than anything she had ever wanted in her life.

"It's beautiful", she said, leaning forward to touch it.

"Yes," Harry said, "it is." He tossed it into the fireplace, and watched as Angelina's heart broke. He smiled. "And that spell, that beautiful, exhilarating spell is considered dark by the ministry, not illegal per say, just dark. They prefer less dramatic conjurations, I suppose."

"Where did you learn that? Was it in a book? Did someone teach it too you? "Angelina said.

"Both, or rather I was taught that spell by an extraordinary book."

"Can I, well, can I borrow it."

"Oh no, the book was stolen. Then, by my hand, destroyed. A shame, that. It had so much more to teach me. Though much of it still lives in my memory, so all is not lost."

"Could you, could you teach me that spell Harry?"

"Perhaps ," Harry said, his smile once again lacking in affect. "I'll think about it over breakfast." And with that Harry stood up and made for the exit. "Good luck with the game," he said before walking through the portrait hole.

"Yes," Angelina mumbled. "Thank you." Though she was hardly aware of the words she spoke, for she found herself staring at the flickering heath, all of her awareness focused on a small pile ash.

A small pile of ash which had once been a rose.


End file.
